The Hole
by Princess Peachtree
Summary: Why John shouldn't watch horror films by himself, and why Sherlock shouldn't leave John in the house by himself. Rated K  because, though stupid, the video that requires watching is terrifying by my standards  that aren't high at all .


**Hello! This is my first fanfic for the Sherlock fandom, so it isn't great. But I had to write this to calm my friend after she watched "The Hole". ****If you haven't seen the film, you should watch this to understand what I'm talking about:**

**youtube(.)com(/)watch?v=HBN3DW6hFTo**

**I've never seen "The Hole" so I apologize for any inaccuracies; I took what I could from that video.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>John had the flat to himself. Normally, it would be a nice change. Today, however, he wished that Sherlock hadn't decided to go where ever he was.<p>

Why John decided to watch "The Hole" was a mystery. When he first picked it up, he was sure it was a children's film. The amount of children that starred in it proved that. It also looked very amateur in comparison to the good horror movies – "The Ring" and other movies of the sort. But he had heard good reviews for it, so he had picked it up and rented it for a day.

Suddenly, that felt like the worst idea he'd ever had. And he had brought girlfriends home to meet Sherlock.

When the little blonde boy found himself trapped in the dank basement by a winking, blinking, _moving _puppet, he found himself clutching a pillow to his face and repeating a mantra of, "He will not die, he will not die…" until he became dehydrated. The music was chilling him right through, which only made him grasp the pillow tighter. He had inflicted this upon himself and he hated that.

However, when the little boy fell through the door, grabbing the sunlit floor like a lifeline, John let out a sigh of relief. He pulled the pillow away from his face and practiced steadying his breathing. He didn't think he had reacted so badly to a film for a very long time.

Just as his composure was relaxing (at the same time as the little boy's, John noticed), he heard someone coming up the stairs.

Instinct took over. He paused the film quickly and held his mug of tea in his hand. Not the best of weapons, sure, but it was a start. Inching towards the door, he remembered how Sherlock had told him this morning that he was going to be out for two days, and he might bring home milk if John "was lucky". Stupid sod.

However, that was irrelevant, and John had to concentrate on the intruder whose heavy footsteps sounded awfully like the terrifying puppet's from the movie. John halted when he was a couple of feet away from the door. His heart was beating in his ears, chest, and legs. Mouth dry, breath short. He couldn't see anything but the door handle.

It turned slowly. Sherlock never opened the door that slowly. Neither did Mrs Hudson, for that matter.

Suddenly, it was slammed down and the door burst open. Before John could even register the smell of the local Chinese, or the curly, dark hair, he threw his cup in the direction of the prowler.

It wasn't until the mug smacked the intruder's stomach that John realised it wasn't an intruder at all; only Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he was winded by the thick, clay mug and burned by the hot tea that stained his white shirt. However, when he looked up, he only looked perplexed.

"You thought I was coming to kill you, and yet you arm yourself with a cup of tea?"

When John didn't reply, Sherlock glanced at the paused film on the television and then the DVD case sitting on the desk.

"A horror film? A child's horror film, no less." Sherlock grinned evilly. "I thought you had more taste."

The insult caused John to fight back. "I'd heard it was very good."

"You heard wrong," Sherlock stated, closing the matter. "Look what it did; my shirt is ruined."

"You ruin _all _your shirts!"

Sherlock picked up the bags he'd dropped during the attack and moved to the kitchen. "I was fond of this one. High thread count."

John sighed heavily at Sherlock's childness, and could taste the Chinese food. "You bought food?"

"And milk."

"That was nice of you," John said softly. He cleared his throat awkwardly, which Sherlock seemed oblivious to. "Why are you here?"

Sherlock did his speciality smile; the half grin.

"I asked the helpful employee at Blockbuster what you had rented. I'm glad I did."

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><p><strong>Just as an added author's note, I will take prompts for SherlockJohn fanfiction. One- or two-shots preferably. I will try anything you throw at me. I'm currently experiencing from writers block, so I hope that will help. Just review on this if you are interested.**

**Thanks for reading!**


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